After recounting admissions recently to an old friend of mine regarding my lack of activity in the now-shuttered Brunswick House, I remembered an odd, though hardly unexpected, experience from another local attraction, The Madison Avenue Pub. “The Maddy" is a hot spot for local students — not just those from the University of Toronto — and professors and Annexians alike.
Years ago, when I was a regular occupant of the Maddy, I witnessed a potentially ugly incident. One night as I was leaving the establishment after soaking down with friends of mine, I heard a provocative discussion happening in real — but a bit blurry — time on the stairway leading from near the main entrance up to the second floor:
"Man! Give him his rubbers back!" Again: "Man, give him his rubbers back." And: "Come on, man!"
Remembering that I was carrying several packets of condoms in my left back pocket I made an offer to the swaying young bloke amongst the three who clearly was operating sans "rubbers". My kindly gesture might give the lad a night to remember.
"Hey. These are yours. They should last you the night." While tossing a "Thanks, Man!" he extended his right arm but inexplicably missed my personal space. I helped by intercepting his hand, a dance much in the way a Soyuz-Progress spacecraft might mate with the International Space Station. The cargo had been delivered. "Contact."
My hope was he would not notice the expiry date; that the alcohol had disconnected any primal urge to check the potentially prize-winning numbers on yellowing packaging.
As I took the two steps down to the main floor, I turned and looked up to my grateful pal: "Have fun... but be careful."
I spun a half-turn toward the opened exit door but a sweeping voice chased me:
Years ago, when I was a regular occupant of the Maddy, I witnessed a potentially ugly incident. One night as I was leaving the establishment after soaking down with friends of mine, I heard a provocative discussion happening in real — but a bit blurry — time on the stairway leading from near the main entrance up to the second floor:
"Man! Give him his rubbers back!" Again: "Man, give him his rubbers back." And: "Come on, man!"
Remembering that I was carrying several packets of condoms in my left back pocket I made an offer to the swaying young bloke amongst the three who clearly was operating sans "rubbers". My kindly gesture might give the lad a night to remember.
"Hey. These are yours. They should last you the night." While tossing a "Thanks, Man!" he extended his right arm but inexplicably missed my personal space. I helped by intercepting his hand, a dance much in the way a Soyuz-Progress spacecraft might mate with the International Space Station. The cargo had been delivered. "Contact."
My hope was he would not notice the expiry date; that the alcohol had disconnected any primal urge to check the potentially prize-winning numbers on yellowing packaging.
As I took the two steps down to the main floor, I turned and looked up to my grateful pal: "Have fun... but be careful."
I spun a half-turn toward the opened exit door but a sweeping voice chased me:
"What'd'ya mean, 'be careful'?"
I wasn't so inebriated that I could not walk an uncountable pace. That was all I heard. No more "what?". He had probably already forgotten me.
As I walked north on Madison Avenue, a young man — they all seem young after you've punched a third decade in the head — approached with measurable non-precision and puttered a question to my broadside as he wobbled around me.
I wasn't so inebriated that I could not walk an uncountable pace. That was all I heard. No more "what?". He had probably already forgotten me.
As I walked north on Madison Avenue, a young man — they all seem young after you've punched a third decade in the head — approached with measurable non-precision and puttered a question to my broadside as he wobbled around me.
"Hey, man. Do you got any rubbers?"
"Funny you should ask. Sorry, Sam, I just gave the last of them away. Have a good night."
(I should have gone into business for myself. A tall, skinny, well-dressed, in a Metrosexual way, and sober guy is of the sort that must be equipped with condoms-for-sale. It all makes sense.)
A clarification: The above story is a work of creative fiction based on actual events. Not all details are authentic and certain liberties are taken in order to tell an entertaining story; I hope. ("Reality" drifts to the mundane.)
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